Schism
by Sidhbh
Summary: The Untempered Schism, ancient and venerated and completely and utterly dangerous. At eight years old, a student is put before it and told to look. Some go mad, some are inspired and some run away. Braxiatel wishes he ran away. Warning for suicide.


**A/N: I think the Untempered Schism one of the most horrifying concepts in Doctor Who. Not just because it's dangerous but it's acknowledged to be by Gallifreyan yet they put young children out in front of it anyway, dressing it up as a rite of passage.**

**The Gallifreyan tendency to pretend like they're beyond barbarism while doing horrific stuff like this and sweeping madness under the rug is part of how horrifying it is. I felt the need to address this ever since I saw the concept.**

**I chose Braxiatel as the main character because he is a man very aware of the importance of appearances, who wants to be the Perfect Gallifreyan, but also considers himself apart from Gallifrey just as much as the Doctor. Just like the Doctor, he's a compassionate man at hearts, but is willing to get his hands bloody to accomplish a goal and his goal is invariably to be a healer, regardless of what is proper.**

* * *

When Braxiatel came of age to peer down the Untempered Schism, he awaited the moment with the same sense of anticipation as everyone else. They attended classes to prepare, even though there were no useful preparations they could possibly make. They were told of its significance, of what would happen: insanity, inspiration or the observer would run away.

In Braxiatel's view, and he was inclined more to speak it at the grand old age of eight, the most rational decision was fleeing, because it was a giant sucking hole in space and time, and being far away from it was obviously the place to be.

Several of his… 'Colleagues? Comrades? Acquaintances?' pronounced him a coward for his view, which certainly helped him to make sure that he didn't stick them into the 'friend' category, and mocked him for it.

Braxiatel rolled his eyes, having expected the reaction and being all the more disdainful for it, though he had noticed the thoughtful look of a potential possible friend.

Approaching him quietly later, he asked him what he thought. "That I'd be inspired to run away due to my madness," Rodage joked. "Perhaps I'll become a doctor."

"A doctor?" Braxiatel asked, slightly confused.

"Repair the damage," he explained.

"Ah. Yes." That pulled him up short. Mental problems were quite common, but no one was allowed speak of it.

Rodage smiled, understanding Braxiatel's reaction. "Good luck in your ceremony, Braxiatel."

"And you."

* * *

Braxiatel didn't run.

When his tutor guided him to stand in front of the Schism, Braxiatel obediently looked at it. And he _wanted_ to run, he truly did. But he stayed, rooted to the spot, expecting either madness or inspiration. He felt neither. A heavy weight descended upon him.

If he'd been left there, he would have burst into tears, but, at last, he felt a tug on his hand. It was a relief when the tutor pulled him away. He looked up at her and she seemed completely different. It was hard to quantify how.

She answered his stare with a smile. "Very good, Braxiatel."

He nodded at the praise, not really understanding why he was being praised. For not running away, perhaps. He turned to go back to school, barely meeting the eye of Rodage.

He didn't feel inspired. That's what nagged him. That feeling of despair stalked him throughout every moment since he left the Schism. He meditated over it, as his tutors advised, long moments of thought as days stretched on.

Eventually, the studies, on hiatus to allow whatever children who didn't go mad outright to recover, returned in full force, and Braxiatel barely had time to keep up, let alone find names to nebulous feelings.

He found a good collaborator in Rodage, who had a capacity for the pure sciences that Braxiatel lacked and helped him should he need it, while Rodage found the more thorny political and cultural subjects harder to grasp and Braxiatel returned the favour.

Even though they worked well together, enormous pressure was put on them, their tutors having noticed how well they were doing. In fact, the tutors weren't the only ones. Their 'colleagues' had noticed that they'd not only started to do well, but that they were becoming friends.

Now, perhaps in human societies, this fact was relatively benign, uninteresting, likely ignored. In the Ancient and Vaunted Time Lord Society, however, inside the Academy and out, friends are liabilities, points of attack, targets to set off each other.

Time Lords don't approve of friends.

Rumours began to spread. They weren't explicitly told any of them, not even by proxy, but they had their imaginations and the 'significant' looks and the harsh chuckles.

"Perhaps we should…" Rodge remarked on one occasion, a sideways smirk on his face. Trying to find the humour was getting hard.

Brax's eyebrow rose and favoured him with a smile for the effort, if nothing else. "I'm afraid you're not quite my type."

"You're not mine, either, so I'm not offended."

"Now, about that ordinance…" Brax began. Rodge groaned. Brax chuckled.

* * *

It was a complete surprise. A shock. He certainly hadn't seen it coming. Certainly they were stressed. But so was _everyone_. That's what the Academy was _for_.

Perhaps it was an elaborate scheme.

He scoffed, sniffling, his hand moving up to his cheek as he realised that he was crying. Well, of course he was. He was just keeping himself from shaking the poor boy to miraculously wake him up!

He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. As his thoughts started to clear, he realised one very salient detail. Rodgefillendar had committed an act that would shame not only him, but the Academy and his family. (Indeed, Brax himself wouldn't have come out too clean, but that hadn't occurred to the student.)

Something had to be done. And seeing how Rodge was _his_ friend, Brax was the one person to do it.

Swallowing, he put the part of himself that demanded time to grieve away. He could grieve later and it would be a process made much easier if he succeeded. He gazed upon the body (not his friend, not anymore, gone before any regenerations were granted) with dispassion. How did he die?

He used a ceremonial dagger. It sliced into him. He was curious how that felt, given how paper cuts or other small niggles… He stopped himself as the physical lump of his pain threatened to re-emerge. Empathising was perhaps unwise just now.

So he moved on. A knife wound. Well, there were two options other than the obvious. One was an attack. While neither of them was terribly popular, this wasn't the Dark Times and it was extraordinarily unlikely that someone would kill him out of jealousy concerning grades.

The other option was an accident. This was obviously the most desirable one: he wouldn't have to frame anyone and no ill will would be involved, merely sympathy. It was, however, difficult, given the nature of the lethal injury.

Brax looked around the room. He wasn't sure quite what he was looking for: a spot where a falling knife would be likely? He found an awkward place that might be just awkward enough to have unfortunate consequences that if someone were to remove a knife from there, injury might incur.

So now Brax had to make _that_ seem more likely. To this end, he started putting their papers in positions to make it seem cluttered. Perhaps the blade was put on top at some point, had fallen down, and when he reached for it…

Brax looked back at the body, remember the blood. For this story to seem likely there needed to be blood at the spot. He shivered but he moved to where the blood had started to pool. He hesitated, but dipped his hand into it. It was sticky and cloying which prompted him to panic and hurry and he spread it on the paper.

He looked down at the blood on his hand. He had implicated himself in the situation. He figured out quickly how to use that to his advantage. Assuming that Rod… that the death hadn't been detected (surely there would have been _some _sort of response by now); he could rewrite the story to involve him. They were both studying, the accident occurred, Braxiatel had panicked, perhaps broken down, before recovering and going for help.

'Panicked' was certainly a good word for how he was feeling. Seized with the realisation, he made his final steps to confirm his story. He'd pulled the body away, but it was too late. He tried to revive him.

The scene utterly destroyed, he knew that even if they, for whatever reason, saw through his 'accident' subterfuge, they wouldn't find sufficient evidence for the truth.

He swallowed. There was one obvious giveaway. A note. Was there one?

He looked around desperately. Finally, he found a page on his bed. Using his clean hand he picked it up. He found the familiar circles of his… of his friend's writing impossible to resist and held it in both hands.

_I'm sorry. _

_The night stalks me day by day. It feels like a living creature bound to me, finding my weaknesses, waiting for me to falter so it can tear me apart. I feel its claws scratching at the edges of my consciousness. _

_I wonder sometimes why I've lasted as long as I have. Certainly the whispers of the students and the disapproval of my tutors have not helped._

_The Schism._

_The Schism showed me what the creature was. I did not fear it then. It was the only time I didn't. Was this inspiration or madness?_

_I know what enabled me to survive._

_Braxiatel._

_I'm sorry, Braxiatel. Thank you for your hard work and I hope you'll be able to use what we've learned. I'm sorry I can't._

Crumpling the page in his hand, his vision blurred. Standing there for a couple of moments, he pushed it, using his dry hand, into his pocket. He looked at the door. It was time.

* * *

It was hardly surprising that Braxiatel was immediately picked up on. He realised that given that he wasn't _generally_ covered in blood or in a state of disarray, it was undoubtedly shocking for others to see him that way. He was still jumpy and surprised when people reacted.

A Castellan was called to investigate and Braxiatel brokenly answered his questions, keeping it simple and always remembering the story he cooked up. A healer was also called. Braxiatel assumed it was to confirm the method of death of the body, so he had no idea whether he ought to be relieved or alarmed that she was there for _him_.

She was lovely and obviously had a keen intelligence and Brax, normally a fussy patient, responded quite well to her. He was immensely glad when, after a few more questions, a clean-up and a promise from the Castellan to contact him again, the body was removed.

"You did all you could, I'm sure."

Braxiatel gave her an incredulous look. _Are you indeed?_ "Yes," he said, lowering his eyes. "I did."

_I protected him._

* * *

There was an inquiry, and several older Time Lords questioned him at various junctures. He answered them as truthfully as possible without betraying his lie. Even the questions of his parents were handled. His little brother had asked very little, purely been concerned with him, looking soulfully at him, fetching things and behaving rather like a miniature Gallifreyanoid watchdog whenever he visited. Brax was quite touched, though he was careful to appear merely bemused.

Slightly of concern was the Castellan who kept a close watch on him. He tested him more than the others.

Finally there was a ruling. "It's _officially_ an accident," the Castellan told him.

Brax allowed himself the slightest of frowns as the Castellan emphasised the wrong word. The Castellan smiled rather than smirked, so he clearly wasn't angry. It was a vaguely sad smile. Did he know?

"There's an Earth saying. 'Needs must while the devil drives'," he said, preparing to leave. "So I must to work, Braxiatel. Good day."

Brax remained seated long after he'd left, staring at the spot he'd found Rodge. He slipped his hand into his pocket. Even though the note itself had long gone, he hardly could risk holding onto it, he could remember clearly exactly how it felt in his pocket.

Reflecting on Rodge's creature, he realised that he had had a creature of his own. Was it Death? Was he as trapped as Rodge? Was that what the Schism was telling him? It didn't feel right. Or rather, correct, as he doubted Death stalking you was ever a thing to feel 'right' about.

Responsibility fitted him better, he suddenly realised. What he'd done… he never once felt guilty for any of it. His lies to Rodge's family, to his own, to the inquiry, to the entire world it seemed, slipped from his lips with such ease that he was surprised he'd actually gotten away with it.

Except for one solitary Castellan. Well, that was a matter best solved by becoming a better liar, surely.

As he explored this line of thought, he felt more and more comfortable, when suddenly, that little brother, pain in the neck, hearts-on-his-sleeve, little watchdog popped back into his head. Protective instincts surged once more.

_What happened to me won't happen to him_, he vowed to himself.

He smiled. His brother would have a best friend. Not him, no, he wasn't able to save Rodge from within the friendship, risking the same with his brother would be unwise. But from a distance, where he'd be able to hear whatever rumours? Perfect.

He decided to go to the library and discover just what a devil actually was.


End file.
